Kitty in the Underworld (Kitty Norville 12)

Footsteps pounded into the room after me, the four of them fanning across the entrance to block my escape. I was trapped. But I stood my ground, staring back at them. Not ducking a millimeter in the face of their challenge.

The white woman, the magician, drew up the rifle-looking gun she’d been holding hidden by her leg, and fired. I turned, an instinctive move to protect myself rather than an attempt at escape, which would have been futile.

A familiar punch and sting hit my shoulder. Snarling, I yanked out the tranquilizer and threw it away. Too late, it had already delivered its dose, and the tingling spread through my chest and arms. Stumbling, I retreated to the back wall. Started to press myself against it, but itching stopped me. There was silver here, just as there was silver everywhere.

The magician loaded another tranquilizer dart and fired again. Woozy now, I was more concerned with getting away from the wall than with dodging the shot, which suddenly seemed like a distant thing. On the ground, I was aware of flopping like a fish, scraping my skin. Then I couldn’t move at all, and they were all there, looking down at me. I couldn’t read their expressions, however much I wanted to see anger, regret, annoyance, sadness, anything.

I faded out altogether, still confused, unable to figure out how to solve this riddle.

* * *

I EXPECTED to wake up back in the cell, the cubbyhole where they’d first put me. I hoped they’d put me there, because my clothes were there. They wanted my Wolf, which meant they wanted me naked, and I was sick of being naked. But the pervasive light and open space meant I was back in the tunnel, the antechamber to the ritual space. And still naked. The grit of the floor dug into the skin of my thigh, shoulder, arm, cheek. I smelled of earth, like I’d been buried.

The vampire was speaking. Intoning, rather, in the formal diction of a poet or a storyteller, like he had before, but this time he recited from a story.

“May the Roads of Enkidu to the Cedar Forest mourn you and not fall silent night or day. May the Elders of the broad city of Uruk-Haven mourn you. May the peoples who gave up their blessings after us mourn you. May the rivers of silt and waterfowl mourn you, may the pasture lands mourn you … May the bear, hyena, panther, tiger, water buffalo, jackal, lion, wild bull, stag, ibex, all the creatures of the plains mourn you…”

The others stood around him, their heads bent in prayer. This was like being in a church service, but for a religion I’d never encountered. I should have been praying along out of politeness, but I was too baffled. I remained still, quiet, hoping they didn’t notice that I’d woken up.

“I mourn for Enkidu, my friend … the swift mule, fleet wild ass of the mountain, panther of the wilderness…”

I couldn’t tell how much time had passed since they knocked me out. It must have been the same night, if the vampire was still here. I might have been out for a few minutes, a few hours. It might have all been a part of a dream. Why was he reciting from the Epic of Gilgamesh? This had to be a dream.

The vampire continued, “Enkidu, the first beast, wild man of the hills who guides all who come after. The greatest warrior, the greatest friend. We remember, we tell the tale, how great Gilgamesh tracked the wild man through the hills. Gilgamesh, king of men, challenged the king of beasts to battle, to see which of them would rule all, for they were evenly matched and only battle would decide. But Enkidu could see the prowess and dignity of the other, and so yielded his claim to any crown of man or beast. Willingly, Enkidu followed Gilgamesh and became his guard.”

I kn

ew this story, but I’d never heard a version of it like this. In the original Sumerian version, Gilgamesh and Enkidu became friends. One didn’t serve the other. Enkidu was on my list of possible werewolves. Another possible hero for me.

If I hadn’t been a captive audience, not to mention naked, I’d have been fascinated by the way the vampire’s voice echoed in the tunnel, and the way he changed the story to suit whatever arcane purpose he had in mind. Instead of being fascinated, though, my dread built.

“Gladly, Enkidu gave his life to save Gilgamesh, taking into himself the weapon meant for the other. Gilgamesh could not be spared, but Enkidu knew his sacrifice would be celebrated—”

“No,” I said. I couldn’t take it anymore. So much for them not noticing I’d woken up. They probably started this because I’d woken up. It was about me. And here I was thinking this couldn’t get any crazier. “That’s not right, that isn’t how the story goes. Enkidu knew their quest had gone too far, that they were in trouble, but Gilgamesh wouldn’t listen to him. Enkidu died cursing Gilgamesh, and nothing Gilgamesh did overcame his grief at losing his best friend—”

“We honor Enkidu’s sacrifice,” the vampire said, glaring at me, because who was I to say his version wasn’t right? Maybe he’d been there. Or maybe it was just a story.

But this wasn’t right. The story of Gilgamesh was about hubris. The point of the vampire’s retelling seemed to be that all powers, even the wildest, will bend toward a righteous goal—a righteous leader. That we must defer to the leader. Him.

The vampire spread his arms, encompassing the others in a fatherly gesture. His tone changed, becoming commanding, decisive. Story over, on to phase two. “You—do you stand witness for Enkidu?” the vampire said.

The werewolf answered, “I stand witness for Enkidu.”

“Do you stand witness for Sakhmet?”

“I stand witness for Sakhmet,” said the were-lion.

“Do you stand witness for Zoroaster?”

“I stand witness for Zoroaster,” said the magician.

Then the vampire looked across the cave at me. “Do you stand witness for Regina Luporum?”

I didn’t say anything.

Impatient, he repeated, “Do you stand witness for Regina Luporum?”

“That’s not even a real story. It’s something Marid made up.” And Marid was twenty-eight hundred years old. How old did a story have to be before it was “real”?